


Les Années Folles

by daiquiri21



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Mortal Instruments Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Paris, Angst, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Malec, Multi, Slow Burn, The Author Regrets Nothing, The Roaring Twenties, Writers, based on the literary scene of 20’s Paris
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:07:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28473669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daiquiri21/pseuds/daiquiri21
Summary: It is the year 1925 in Paris, a city that had long been a haven for intellectuals, artists, and nonconformists in various walks of life. Receptive—culturally and morally—to writing that crossed boundaries by challenging "established" behaviors, the sexual mores of the city were looser, concepts of gender more fluid, and indulgent lifestyles encouraged.It is at such a time that two young authors, different as two people can be, meet in a bar. Alec Lightwood and Magnus Bane may have next to nothing in common, but their paths crossing that night will change their lives forever.
Relationships: Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Comments: 12
Kudos: 16





	1. 10 Rue Delambre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatnerdemryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatnerdemryn/gifts), [notquiteascrazy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/notquiteascrazy/gifts), [MissYouSoFar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissYouSoFar/gifts), [Wolfpup_4973](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfpup_4973/gifts), [Myulalie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myulalie/gifts).



> Hey everyone! 
> 
> This is my first ever Malec fic, and it’s set in one of my all time favorite time periods. I really wanted to write something entertaining and immersive combining two things I love with all my heart, so I hope you love it as much as I do! 
> 
> I tried to be as historically accurate as possible, but I did take some creative liberty because this is fictional. Most of the details about the city scene are taken from the work of the real life artists in the story like Fitzgerald and Hemingway.
> 
> Anyway, I’m gonna stop rambling now so you can get to the fic lol. 
> 
> Happy reading!!

The early evening air was brisk against his cheeks as he strolled through the lit street beside the Seine. It was rare to find yourself walking alone in this city, so he took the chance to breathe deeply the fresher air near the river while he made his way to his favorite bar for a round of drinks before attending the gathering he’d been invited to later that night. 

Alec Lightwood removed his hat from his head and ran his rapidly chilling fingers through his ebony hair. He’d been staying in a small, dank apartment on the _Rue Cardinale Lemoine_ for the past month or so he’d been a resident here, though the space was rarely occupied. The real magic of the city lay in the city itself, or so he was told. A whole month had passed by since his departure from the States and his family. A month since he’d cut his university education short in favor of pursuing his ambitions as a writer. Naturally, he’d been drawn to the place every modern classic was being born of late; Paris. 

A month had passed indeed, and his starry eyed impressions of the city had been solely met with disillusionment. Aside from the inconvenience of his musty, relatively uninhabitable apartment, he’d been gravely disappointed by the heady loneliness he felt in the constantly bustling metropolis. The people flew from party to party, drinks in hand and morality fleeting as they indulged themselves in nearly every sin known to man. The idea had held some fascination to Alec, but he found he had no clue where to begin.

A party was the farthest thing from enjoyable if you spent the evening alone, and Alec was nowhere near as sociable as he needed to be in order to forge friendships in the always moving scene. So his month in the French capital had been rather dismal.

To top it all off, he’d been entirely uninspired his whole stay. The paper sitting on his desk remained woefully unmarred by ink, and the journal he kept in his coat pocket had little more in the name of content other than mindless doodles. 

Desperate for some zest in his life, he’d found his way to a small bookshop in hopes of finding a muse in the literary greats. Instead, he’d come upon something far more promising. An invitation to a salon rumored to be attended by the very names that had attracted Alec to Paris to begin with. The likes of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Pound would all gather at the address of Gertrude Stein tonight, the most important name to know in the literati circle at the moment. This salon would be Alec’s ticket to notability if he managed to form a rapport with these folk. 

Given the importance of the night to Alec’s future here, he was understandably riddled by nerves. Hence, he’d traveled from his residence to the Dingo Bar at _10 Rue Delambre_ in hopes of assuaging his anxiety with drinks. The warm, smokey atmosphere of the bar welcomed him from the chilly May evening outside, beckoning him towards a seat at the bar. He waved the bartender over and ordered a Villa America Special, placing a few francs on the bar counter in exchange for the glass. 

He was sipping idly when the chill of the door being opened by a new patron drew his attention back towards the entrance. A tall man, and inch or so taller than him from the looks of it, entered with another man who had a few years on the former. The first man was most certainly a member of the Parisian artistic crowd. No other man would dare to shadow his eyes with kohl as this one had. Though Alec found it to be a bold choice, he appreciated that it drew attention immediately to the enchanting gold hue of the man’s irises. Never before had he beheld such an intriguing set of eyes, and his curiosity had earned him the returned attention of the tall man. 

A playful smile, the type that graced the lips of boys setting their sights on their next great adventure, tugged at the tall man’s lips and his eyes glinted in the low light of the bar. He tapped his friend on the arm and strolled over to the bar where Alec was seated, claiming the stool beside him as his own. 

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” the tall man with the magical eyes said, leaning against the counter and holding his hand out towards Alec. His fingers were clad with rings and his nails were perfectly trimmed and free of grime. The man clearly prided himself on his appearance, not that Alec though he shouldn’t. For all intents and purposes, this man was handsome.

“Um, no, I don’t believe we have,” Alec agreed, shaking the man’s hand politely. “Though I’m not particularly surprised. I’ve only been in the city for a month now, and don’t know many people at all,” he informed. A pitiful, but factual introduction. Though it didn’t seem to dissuade the gold-eyed man from wanting to continue their conversation.

“Ah, a newcomer, of course. That would explain why I haven’t seen you about, wouldn’t it Ragnor?” The man said, looking over to his other side at his companion, who nodded absently while ordering himself a drink. “Oh, don’t mind him. Ragnor only ever becomes amicable after a drink or two,” the man excused, turning his attention back to Alec.

“Oh, I don’t mind. Frankly, I’ve learned that most people here are incapable of human function without some liquor in them,” Alec mused, pulling a chuckle from the handsome stranger. 

“Nothing wrong with using liquor as a crutch to a fractured soul,” he hummed, calling the bartender over and ordering a Hot Rum Punch for himself. “I’m Magnus, by the way. Magnus Bane,” he introduced. 

Alec’s eyes widened fractionally before he composed himself. He’d heard that name even while he was still at university in America. Magnus Bane was an author whose novella, _The Warlock_ , was reaching great heights among both literary critics and the public. One of its avid readers happened to be Alec himself, and now, face to face with the man himself, he found himself at a loss for words. 

“Am I wrong to assume you have a name you’ve neglected to share with me?” Magnus Bane queried, drawing Alec back to the present moment. 

“Right, sorry. Alec Lightwood. Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Bane,” he said, extending his hand to shake his once more before realizing belatedly that they’d already greeted each other in that manner. But Mr. Bane was perfectly indulgent of his lapse in conduct, shaking his hand with the same gusto he had before.

“Likewise. And don’t bother yourself with proprieties with me. Magnus, will be just fine,” Mr. Bane-Magnus assured. Alec nodded and found himself smiling in the generally vivacious presence of the other. When he’d read his novella, Alec had tried to imagine what the author was like. Whether he was as mysterious as his name or as intellectual as his narrative style. But the man before him was harder to describe than he could’ve anticipated. He was polite yet audacious, friendly yet domineering. He was like a breathing dichotomy of right and wrong wrapped into a single man, and Alec knew he wouldn’t be able to understand such a character in a single meeting. That thought left him with only one more; he hoped that this wouldn’t be the last time he met Magnus Bane.

“So what is it that you do, Alexander?” Magnus asked, propping his chin atop his hand where he was leaning his elbow against the counter’s edge. “I’m a writer myself,” he added so Alec would understand in what sense he was asking.

“I’m a writer as well. Or trying to be at least,” Alec clarified. He didn’t feel justified in calling himself a writer when he had yet to publish a single piece. “And I know who you are actually. I’m a fan of your work,” he admitted.

Magnus raised a curious eyebrow at this new piece of information and leaned forward with interest. “Is that so? Tell me, what would you do differently if it were your work?” He inquired.

The question caught Alec off guard. Since when did one respond to a compliment about one’s work with a question about what the complimenter would change? He took a moment to think back to the novella, recalling the story that had kept him occupied for three entertaining afternoons. 

“I suppose...I would’ve chosen a different character to be the narrator. The friend, Bastien, perhaps. He was more understated than Renault, more observant than boisterous. If it were my work, I would have written the story from his eyes because they were the most familiar to my own,” he explained. He looked back to Magnus when he’d concluded his musings, searching his expression for a reaction.

Magnus just stared at him for a moment, then smiled. “My friend, you are most definitely a writer as far as I’m concerned,” he confirmed. “Jacques, another drink for him on me,” he called to the bartender, sliding a few francs in his direction in exchange for the replacement to Alec’s now empty glass. 

He handed him the glass and raised his own in a toast. “To living life through our own eyes,” he hummed, clinking their glasses together before tossing back the remainder of his drink in one gulp.

Alec laughed a bit and nodded in agreement, taking a large swallow of his refilled drink. Living life through his own eyes. He’d spend some more time mulling that idea over when he was alone again.

“Well, it was wonderful to make your acquaintance, Alexander. But unfortunately, myself and Ragnor here do have somewhere to be soon,” Magnus sighed, reaching back to pat his friend on the shoulder and interrupting his discourse with another patron, eliciting a grumble from the older man.

“Magnus, despite your belief, my world doesn’t revolve around you,” Ragnor griped, though it was clear from his indulgent expression and Magnus’s laugh that there was no real maliciousness behind his words. Just the irritation of an old friend who was allowed to criticize without fear of consequence. 

“Come on, old sport. You know I’m the light of your dismal days,” Magnus teased, nudging him in the ribs with his elbow. “Besides, it’s getting late and we promised Gertie we’d be at her place at a reasonable time. I’m nothing of not a man of my word,” he proclaimed with no shortage of dramatic flair.

“Oh, I can think of quite a few other ways to describe you,” Ragnor hummed, politely ending his earlier conversation before getting to his feet and pulling his coat on. “Well, come on then, let’s be on our way.”

“Um, actually-“ Alec chimed in, calling both men’s attention. “I am fairly sure that, um, I’m headed to the same place as you.” He rummaged his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out the invitation as proof of his validity. “27 Rue de Fleures? Gertrude Stein’s place?” He asked for affirmation. 

“Well I’ll be damned, you’re headed to Gertie’s as well? Oh, this is fantastic!” Magnus cheered. “Join us then, mon amie. If this is your first time, then you definitely want to be on time. Gertie is the punctual sort,” he said, pulling Alec to his feet by the arm. 

Alec’s nerves had been eased greatly by the combination of alcohol and Magnus’s effervescent aura. Enough so that he felt moderately prepared to attend this salon. It provided him with some comfort that he wouldn’t be left to his own vices tonight. This would be different from other parties. He’d have someone there who he knew. Someone who’d deemed him a friend in the short time they’d known each other. The outlook for the night was promising.

He followed the pair out of the Dingo and back into the crisp evening, the sun long gone, leaving a starry sky in its absence. Alec tipped his head back to admire the luminous little specks so far out of his reach. 

When he lowered his gaze again, he found Magnus observing him with a quizzical amusement. “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars,” he quoted. He dug into his pocket and retrieved a cigar and matchbox, lighting it with a languorous ease. 

“Oscar Wilde,” Alec recognized, burying his own hands in his pockets to protect them from the chill. Ragnor had stepped away for the moment to try and hail them a cab. 

“Do you believe that?” He asked, looking over at Magnus as he took a long drag from the cigar and exhaled a cloud of blue smoke into the night.

“Which part? That we’re all in the gutter? Or that only some of us are looking up at the stars?”

“Either I suppose.”

“Hm...ask me again when the rum’s worn off,” Magnus chuckled.

Ragnor returned to their side with a cab car rolling along beside him, the driver hopping out to open the door for them. The three of them piled into the cabin one after the other, settling in for the short trip. 

Magnus offered cigars to both Ragnor and Alec, lighting them with a single match. The carriage filled with the heady aroma of smoke with just a couple puffs, and the cabbie settled into the driver’s seat in the meantime.

“Où allez-vous tous, monsieur?” The cabbie asked, needing an address.

“27 Rue de Fleures, mon amie,” Magnus called out. The cab’s engine roared to life and the wheels rolled along the uneven road towards the residence of Gertrude Stein.


	2. 27 Rue de Fleurus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is up! Things start off a little slow here, but I promise there are good things at the end and many more to come.
> 
> Special thanks to alistoney for encouraging me the other day to write more. You’re amazing!!
> 
> Okay, go read now!

The home of Gertrude Stein stood in the 6th arrondissment of Paris on the Left Bank. The outwardly simple two-story flat was anything but on Saturday evenings, the _jour fixe_ for the eminent salons hosted for the Parisian literati and artists. 

The cab rolled down the Rue de Fleurus, turning the corner East at the Luxembourg Gardens and crossing a newly constructed bookshop that Alec noted to visit in the near future. He took a final puff from his cigar right as they pulled up in front of flat 27.

“ _Nous voilà. Cela a coûté 5 francs_ ,” the cabbie informed. Magnus reached into his coat pocket and shoved the payment into the man’s hand with a genial word of thanks before the three of them more or less stumbled out of the carriage, which waited little more than a split second before speeding away to hunt down its next passenger. 

Every window of the flat was lit brightly, and the shadowed silhouettes of the guests could be seen through the thin curtains, drinking and laughing up a storm it seemed. Ragnor gripped the brass knocker and hit it against the wood thrice before the front door opened to reveal a tiny, shy-looking woman who looked up at the three new arrivals with a hint of a smile.

“ _Bonjour_ , Alice. So nice to see your beautiful face again,” Magnus greeted exuberantly, leaning down to kiss the woman’s cheek, who laughed a bit in turn.

“Always a pleasure, Magnus,” Alice hummed, stepping aside to let the group into her home. “Gertie’s been expecting you all day. She’s right in the sitting room chatting with Ernest and Scott.” 

Alec removed his hat and gripped it anxiously in his hands as he looked around the crowded room. He caught a word or two of conversation, a discussion about romanticism passing through his ear and out the other as his attention was diverted by the various paintings adorning the walls. The assortment was greatly varied, a realistic portrait of a woman placed beside a framed photograph of the _Champs Élyées_ which was next to what appeared to be a painting of a melting hourglass surrounded by hands. Strange taste, Alec thought. But who was he to judge the aesthetic of Gertrude Stein? 

He snapped out of his musings when he realized Magnus and Ragnor were heading in the direction of the sitting room, following close behind them. There was a group of three seated around the coffee table in the center of the room, a shrewd eyed woman engaged in rapt discussion with a mustached man. Beside them, a tall but slightly effeminate man stood indulging in an overfilled glass of champagne. 

“All I’m saying, Ernest, is that if someone mentions the name James Joyce more than three times in one evening, they are going to find a bottle of wine shoved up their- Magnus! Darling, I was starting to worry you wouldn’t even make it here,” the woman laughed, standing up from her seat to greet Magnus with a kiss on each cheek.

“Gertie, dear, you know I’d never dream of missing one of these lovely gatherings,” Magnus chuckled, greeting her back in kind. He strode a few paces across the room and gracefully plucked the champagne flute from the effeminate man, taking a sip himself.

“I’m sure you’ve had more than enough wine for a lifetime, Scott. Don’t want to get zozzled before the night even begins,” he said, taking a seat on the sofa and crossing his legs over each other.

“Hey, Bane. Who’s the lost pup you’ve got tagging along there?” the mustached man asked, raising his decanter of whiskey in Alec’s direction. The focus suddenly shifted, and Alec found the entire group staring at him with an analytical curiosity these artistic types possessed. The type that tried to decipher your past, present and future with a single observance. And being the center of attention in any capacity was far from Alec’s comfort zone.

Thankfully, Magnus stepped in at just the right moment to handle introductions. “Ah, that there is Alec Lightwood. Writer like you and me,” he hummed, gesturing to the group as a whole. “Been in _la Ville de Paris_ for just over a month now and has somehow flown under our noses all this time.”

Alec gripped the hat in his hand awkwardly and nodded to the three strangers that now knew more about him than most of the city’s denizens. “Pleasure,” he said abruptly after realizing he’d been silent for a moment too long, brushing his hand off on his pant leg before shaking each of their hands respectively.

Then their introductions began. Gertrude Stein, the most influential member of the avant-garde community in Paris. Scott Fitzgerald, author of four published and acclaimed pieces including _The Beautiful and the Damned_ , a personal favorite of Alec’s. And lastly, Ernest Hemingway, an up and coming writer like himself, except he was already well known amongst the literary crowd and had a nearly completed collection of shorts due for publication this year. All in all, they were quite the intimidating trio.

Though he was loathe to admit it, this entire gathering was more intimidating than he’d anticipated, and the liquid courage he‘d put in his system was diluting at an alarming rate. His palms felt clammy, and words were starting to mix and jumble in his brain before they even made it to his tongue, let alone out his mouth. He was supposed to say something back, he was sure of that. But what? How was he supposed to converse with these people?

“Alright, enough with the introductions. Now what was all that complaining about old Joyce I heard on my way in,” Magnus diverted just before it could all take a turn for the painfully awkward. Alec was physically relieved, his shoulders relaxing and a deep breath of air filling his tense lungs. 

He blinked a few times when he realized a glass was being held out to him, that Magnus had poured him a drink while Stein had delved back into her gripe about her fellow writer. He looked from the drink to Magnus, and those gold eyes seemed like they just knew exactly what was ailing him. The smile that followed, that radiant yet subtle turn of lips that followed was the cure. He returned the gesture with a grateful nod of his own, taking the glass and letting the alcohol ease his frayed nerves. He shifted on his feet for a moment before taking a seat beside Magnus. 

It was different to observe the man when he wasn’t in direct conversation with him. He noticed the rapt attention he provided the speaker, those piercing eyes latching onto every word that Stein said. He took up more space than he justifiably needed on the sofa, arms spread over the ornate backrest with a leg crossed over the other in that way where only his ankle rested on his knee while the rest of his leg jutted out to the side, but it didn’t come off pompous as it might have for others. Magnus exuded charisma, charm, confidence, all of that which would make someone the life of the party. But there was a subtext to his persona that Alec was lured by even more so. An emotional intelligence that allowed him to see people. Truly see them.

Alec felt that Magnus might’ve seen him more clearly than anyone else had in the short time they’d known each other. How he knew that? He wasn’t all too certain himself. But he hadn’t felt overwhelmed by him as he had by the rest of the city. He’d felt comfortable, and he still did even in the midst of this foreign crowd. There was a certain _je ne sais quoi_ about him that put Alec at ease. He found himself musing that even if nobody else at this party remembered his name that would be alright, as long as Magnus would.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alec wasn’t certain what time it was, or whether it was drink three or ten in his hand. As the champagne kept flowing, eventually tansforming into rum and whiskey, he conversed more freely with the other members of the group.

Stein, though she came across sharp tongued, was a clever and astute conversationalist that reminded Alec vaguely of his mother. Scott was by far the friendliest of them, despite his accomplishments. He acted as if he were still a first time author learning the trick of the trade from anyone that had a word of wisdom to offer. Ernest, or Hem as the other’s called him, was aggressively masculine to say the least. He was clearly intelligent and insightful, but he had a brusque demeanor that made Alec a bit reluctant to initiate a conversation with him. He wondered if maybe he was compensating for something, but he didn’t let himself travel too far down that line of thought. Overall, these people weren’t all that intimidating after a night of conversation.

“Well fellas, time to shoo you out into the streets for the night. Alice and I are heading to bed,” Stein hummed, getting to her feet. 

“For God’s sake, Gertie it’s only-“ Scott said, wrestling with his sleeve to squint at his watch. “Well, whatever time it is, the sun’s still down. And I’m nowhere near ready to turn in for the night. What do you say, Mags?”

Magnus laughed and downed the remainder of his drink, setting it down on the table. “Scotty, you know I’m always up for another party,” he said, clapping him on the back and almost knocking him off his precarious balance. 

“What do you say, Alexander?” He hummed, gripping the backrest behind Alec and leaning down over him. His eyes glinted and Alec's whiskey-logged mind thought they looked like miniature suns. How do you say no to the sun?

“Mm...why not? We’re in Paris after all,” he shrugged, moving to stand when Magnus straightened with a pleased smile.

“That’s the spirit! I knew you’d come around after a few more drinks,” he said, lighting a cigar for the road. “I’ll go see where Ragnor hopped off to and then we can all head out to the Angel.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh, no. Please, I have two left feet. Don’t make me embarrass myself out there,” Alec chuckled, waving off the encouraging calls of Magnus and Scott to join them amongst the throngs of liquor soaked patrons dancing in the middle of _Le Café D’Angel_.

The room was surrounded by mirrors and shrouded by glittering lights that made Alec suspect he’d drank enough in one night to find the stairway to heaven. They had to have been here for over an hour by now, and Magnus and Scott had taken to the dance floor quite early in the game. Alec had elected to keep the table reserved with Ragnor, indulging in copious amounts of gin that he wasn’t all too sure who was paying for. 

Despite his disinclination to join the crowd, Magnus sauntered his way over to him. Alec couldn’t help but smile when he saw him. The man was light on his feet and moved with the combined grace of a wild cat and a ballerina. The more inebriated Alec became, the more poetic his thoughts became. And currently, they were focused heavily on the most enchanting man in the room. In Alec’s humble opinion, all of Paris.

“Nonsense! You said so yourself, Lightwood. This is Paris,” Magnus laughed, taking Alec by the arm and hauled him out to the dance floor. “What’s a night in Paris without drinks and dance?” 

He led Alec into the thick of the crowd, the place where there was no other choice but to dance. The jazz band perched on the small stage changed their tune, and the club goers broke out into the Charleston. Magnus was a natural it seemed; he moved like there was music flowing through his veins. Alec was nowhere near that, and he hadn’t been lying about having two left feet. He moved awkwardly and clumsily, a wondrous combination of zero skill and a muddled brain. If it wasn’t for the fuzzy, bright light surrounding the edges of his vision, he would’ve been too embarrassed to continue.

But Magnus didn’t seem to mind his klutziness in the slightest. “There you go, I knew you had it in you!” He encouraged, tossing his head back and flying along to the music. As the tempo picked up, he grabbed Alec’s hands and pulled him along to the beat. For a moment, Alec felt like he could see the world as Magnus did. Beautiful, lively, bright. Everything melted away for those few moments before the music finally came to a close.

A raucous cheer echoed around the room and hands applauded the band’s talents. But Alec could only see the man in front of him. He’d known him for no more than an evening, and he couldn’t fathom looking anywhere else.

Even for me life has its gleams of sunlight, he thought to himself. Charlotte Brontë. Who was this drop of sunlight who’d fallen into his otherwise dreary days? 

Alec could ponder all of that during his hangover the next day. But for tonight, he was going to enjoy Paris with his sunshine.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Three days later, Alec was seated at the small desk in his wretched flat. The pristine paper lay before him, and he adjusted his grip on the pen in his hand. Three days, and all he could think about was that night at _Le Café D’Angel_. The glittering lights and the man who’d outshone them all. 

A smile tugged at his lips, and he closed his eyes. He could see those golden eyes and that radiant smile that understood your worries and made them melt away. He opened his eyes and looked at his pocket journal sitting open on his desk beside the windowsill. 

_The Café du Dome. Noon on Thursday_. The writing wasn’t the most eloquent in the world, but Magnus had been far more sloshed that night than even he himself had been, and it had taken him an entire day and a half to defeat the hangover that followed. But it was legible enough that Alec felt a sense of excitement bubble up inside of him when he read it as he had over and over again. 

He’d meet Magnus again tomorrow, and he was waiting with baited breath for that moment. He wanted to see the world the way he had that day. He traced his fingertips over the strokes of ink before turning to the paper again. He’d finally found something worth more than the purity of the paper itself. So, for the first time since his arrival in the city, he began to write.

“No cloudy day can hope to hide, no city lights could ever replicate, and no starry sky could compare to the ray of sun that brightens the day and breathes life into this otherwise colourless world.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there you have it! I’m going to try and pull off at least weekly updates, so fingers crossed.


End file.
